


Whiskey, Peace, and Love Confessions

by nietzscheantrout



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Costume Party, Fluff, Gentleness, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Ireland, Just wanted to write something soft for once!, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Whiskey - Freeform, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26697190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nietzscheantrout/pseuds/nietzscheantrout
Summary: 2 months post-fall, Lecter and Graham find themselves preparing for an outing at a costume party in Ireland, followed by a visit to a bar. Will's heart begins to race... is this the right time to confess?
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 72
Collections: Hannibal Bingo





	Whiskey, Peace, and Love Confessions

The autumn wind howls unforgivingly outside the walls of a remote cottage in the center of Ireland. For miles on end, there is nothing surrounding it but fields and trees, and perhaps the occasional cattle that have roamed too far from the herd. A few years ago, Will would’ve laughed at the poignant metaphor of being a cow far from the herd, but he no longer felt like that. After all, wolves seldom found themselves at home with sheep.    
  
It has been two months since he and Hannibal survived the fall. A night he vowed he’d never forget. The night he chose him. Breath labored, Will remembered Lecter’s groans as he dragged their wounded bodies ashore. His prayers in a language he didn’t understand or couldn’t process. The look in his eyes when he checked for a pulse and momentarily didn’t feel one. At that moment, everything in the world had simultaneously gone still and moved at a pace too fast for either of them to keep up. Will managed to eke out a breath to let the man know he was alive, body limp and shivering at the freezing temperature of the water. He had never heard anyone audibly weep the way Hannibal did at that moment, with unadulterated gratitude towards the universe and God. For once, neither of them defied the divine or refuted it. They simply accepted the gift of life. The teacup that gathered itself together.    
  
Now, what feels like eons later, Will finds himself seated on the couch, applying cheap fake blood to the corners of Hannibal’s lips with care. Lecter can’t help but smile at the irony, enjoying the concentration on Will’s face, eyebrows knitted in focus. “Do we really have to do this?” Will asks, even though he already knows the answer. Even in hiding, Hannibal refused to move to the complete middle of nowhere. He still had social circles and appearances to maintain, and this involved having to drag Will out of the house every once in a while and watching him squirm his way through conversation and follow Hannibal around like a lost puppy. Frankly, it was endearing, and a tasty reminder of Lecter’s position in their relationship.   
  
“Yes, Will. It won’t be long, I promise. Not to mention you promised to meet me for drinks after,” he reminds him. The atmosphere in the house is unbearable some days. Both men know what the other is thinking but have been employing their own ways of communicating it. For Hannibal, it has involved passively leaving intricate sketches of two men in various intimate positions around the house, even though Will fully knows he’s completely capable of putting them away. For Will, on the other hand, it’s been silence. Not the cold, unforgiving silence that Hannibal endured while stuck behind a screen, but a silence that signaled reflection. It was a silence that lingered in the air when he ever so slightly overstayed his welcome when visiting Hannibal’s room; and a silence that was deafening every time they sat beside each other on the couch to wind down for the evening.   
  
The thought of being out for proper drinks with Hannibal feels strangely more intimate than anything prior. It’s like they’re announcing the status of their relationship to the world, not that Will knows what that actually is. Occasionally, he will take a moment to inspect the scars on his stomach and wonder what it all means. Whether by extension of being granted the intimacy of Hannibal’s knife, he is deserving of the intimacy of Lecter’s arms around him.   
  
Hannibal notices the pause in the air, accustomed to Will’s silence and calculating expression by now.   
  
“Yeah, I remember,” he looks back up at Hannibal, grabbing the paintbrush and starting to work the paint down to his neck, leaning in to try and mimic drip patterns that he’d spend years analyzing on victims of all shapes and sizes. Though in this moment, it’s hard to remember that there was ever a life before meeting Hannibal, and impossible to envision that there could ever be a life without him.   
  
After a few more moments of painting and inspecting Hannibal's prominent Adam’s apple, Will pulls away and nods his head to signify he’s happy with the overall effect. Hannibal allows his lips to spread into a smile, putting in the badly-made fake fangs he’d purchased just that week. He makes a few clicking sounds, as if to test that they’re working, before grabbing the kit beside him and signaling for Will to lean in. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” he half-complains, watching Hannibal begin to glue fake fur to his arms silently. A vampire and a werewolf.    
  
“Are you not at all amused by the irony? I would’ve thought your costume choices would be a little less on-the-nose, Doctor Lecter,” Will says, surprised by the teasing tone of his own voice.   
  
“Nothing wrong with being on-the-nose. Orpheus and Eurydice didn’t tie the knot by virtue of indirect confessions,” he gives him a knowing look for a brief second, returning to gluing unkempt fur to him.    
  
He finishes quicker than Will did, adding the not-so-subtle touch of a headband with ears, which really more resemble those of a bear. Out of the corner of his eye, Will sees the pair in a mirror and can’t help but crack a laugh. Some of the most wanted men in the world, dressed in outfits that would have easily been put together by two children on a school night. They look ridiculous. “Ready to go?” he asks, putting his shoes on hastily. Hannibal had bought him some slippers covered in fur but Will vowed he’d never let Lecter see the light of day if forced to wear those abominations. He prefers his sturdy boots.    
  
Hannibal’s lips turn up in amusement, noticing that neither of them had to buy any new clothes for the costumes. He’s content in one of his old suits, letting the blood (which honestly, was lacking viscosity), soak into the collar; and Will’s unsurprisingly dressed in another Godawful flannel and ill-fitting chinos. A beautiful disaster.   
  
In the car, Hannibal begins updating Will on the party guests’ lives and statuses, knowing that he often doesn’t bother to absorb that information. While they hadn’t officially made their relationship clear with anyone, Hannibal had unconsciously referred to Will as his partner, and nobody seemed to have any further questions judging by the way they looked at each other. He decided not to correct himself. “So, Eloise will be there. Do you recall meeting her? We spent some time at her art exhibition last month,” he begins, rambling on.   
  
Will nods absentmindedly, recalling Eloise and her husband, Carmen and her 6 cats, and most of all, Archie, who Hannibal seemed to be extremely interested in during their last outing. Not that Will cares, or at least has any right to be upset, of course.    
  
\-----   
  
They arrive on the scene, and Will is sorry to say that the room is more crowded than he expected. “Shall we?” Hannibal prompts, extending an arm, which Will absentmindedly links onto. Hand holding and similar soft touches weren’t new to them, and Will can’t say he’s uncomfortable. It feels good to have something to ground you.    
  
Hannibal saunters inside with his usual confident stride, briefly saying hello here and there to anyone that seems to recognize him. This, albeit being hard to admit, has always been Will’s favorite part. The way Hannibal manages to conduct an entire room of people, be the center of attention while maintaining an air of genuineness about it. He begins to introduce Will to people, and this is where the difference between them is striking and extremely evident. “Winston Hughes,” Will introduces himself, shaking a variety of gloves, tentacles, and arms covered in body paint. “Winston is my… roommate,” Hannibal says. Will doesn’t know how to feel about that deliberate pause. He quietly wishes he was more upset.    
  
Before they know it, the exchange of pleasantries becomes that tiny bit more unbearable as people make their way to the dance floor. Will takes this as his cue to plant himself in the furthest possible corner, grateful for the champagne. He can’t help but watch Hannibal glide across the floor, seeming to navigate 5 conversations, dancing, and drinking all at once. Will is abashedly enamored, and there’s nothing he can do.   
  
After what feels like an eternity of mingling, Hannibal is finally slightly worn (and very slightly tipsy). “Mr. Hughes,” he keeps up appearances, looking around them to see who’s listening. “I trust you’ve had quite enough of this evening, but there are a few people I’d like you to meet.” Hannibal takes a second to squeeze his arm. “I’m sure you’ll find them deliciously intriguing.” Will knows what that means.   
  
“How long have you and Mr. Andris been roommates?” a woman asks, playing with the lace on her pink dress as she studies the body language between the two men.   
  
“We’re old friends, really. I’m not sure I could place a date on it,” Hannibal sweeps in, hand on Will’s shoulder. “Though we should really get going. Mr. Hughes and I have a prior commitment. Thank you for your time and we would be very happy to have you for dinner sometime next week,” he cracks the standard line, noticing Will’s hesitation to smile. Clearly, the prospect of them stepping out together for the evening has become daunting and a little much to bear.    
  
As they step outside, Hannibal feels the autumn breeze return and silently curses himself for allowing Will to commit to the look to the point of leaving the house without a jacket. He quietly takes his off, wrapping it around the anxious man’s shoulders. “That fake fur won’t help,” he tries to crack a joke, walking Will into an upscale bar. They’re immediately transported into a 1920’s speakeasy, and something about the wooden interior comforts Will more so than most establishments of this sort would. They’re given a few quizzical looks by other patrons, who seem to be a lot less ridiculously dressed, but Hannibal’s conviction and smile is enough to grant them a respectable place to be seated. Two opposing bar stools, with only a small table separating them. Wil has gotten used to sitting opposite Hannibal by now, but the proximity in this moment, at this time, is a lot to process at once. He can clearly analyse every scar, mentally caress over every smile line, graze his eyes upon Hannibal’s posture and the way he sits with his chest forward. Will says nothing, darting his eyes up and down the man in an attempt to find a natural stopping point. God forbid that be his eyes, Will doesn’t think he could handle that right now.    
  
They get served their drinks. Will orders a whiskey (he sure needs one), and watches Hannibal take his first sip of a cocktail the name of which he can only dream of being able to pronounce.    
  
“Tell me, Will… how are you feeling at this moment?”   
  
“Back to square one, are we? You’ve got a head on your shoulders, Dr. Lecter. Why don’t you humor me with some psychoanalysis?” Will sits back. He won’t admit it, but he loves winding Hannibal up.    
  
“Alright, then. If you insist,” the corners of his mouth curve upwards ever-so-slightly. He won’t admit it, but he loves it when Will winds him up.    
  
“You’re feeling inadequate. We both witnessed your Becoming, the abandonment of your past self, but our moving here has brought you into a period of repression.” He pauses to lay his arm on the table, palm upwards. “Will, what are you afraid of?”   
  
Will inspects the blotches of red and black on his hands, a messy reminder of their earlier paint endeavors. He can’t take Hannibal seriously when he looks like a cartoon Dracula. Nevertheless, he timidly slides his hand into Hannibals. It’s a lot easier than trying to think of something, anything, to say.   
  
“Is it going to be like this forever, Hannibal? I don’t think I can do it anymore,” he attempts to speak with confidence, but his voice comes out hoarse and shaky.   
  
Lecter calculates Will’s expression, looking at their interlocked hands at the table. He allows for a short pause before taking his chance. He too is tired of the silences, no matter how caring. Hannibal brings Will’s hand up to his lips, giving it the gentlest of kisses before returning it to the table. He makes sure to catch Will’s gaze, eyes completely still as an attempt to lead by example for Will’s, which are still frantically jumping around.    
  
“Well, it certainly doesn’t have to be. But you must ask yourself what’s stopping you,” His voice has transitioned into a near-murmur. It’s low, almost unsure, from the way it comes out of his mouth. Will notices the same vulnerable expression in his face he has seen countless times.   
  
“Bedelia told me you’re in love with me,” he finally blurts out, but when he says it aloud it sounds silly. Like a middle schooler begging for someone to admit their crush.   
  
“She was right,” he pauses. “Is that what you want to hear? Does that satisfy you?” he feels the annoyance in his voice grow. Will can’t seem to take any responsibility on himself; is Hannibal only going to get confessions by proxy? Will he have to do with timid nodding and no verbal reciprocation?   
  
This is where Hannibal is reminded of Will’s unpredictability. The same unpredictability that sent Matthew Brown, the same one that killed Chiyoh’s prisoner, and the one that slew the Great Red Dragon.   
  
“Hannibal, I’m in love with you,” the words tumble out of his mouth at breakneck speed, though it feels like time has been paused altogether. “I don’t presume that you needed a verbal confession, but it’s what I need, alright?” He extends his other arm the same way Hannibal did, letting the man place his hand into Will’s. “I feel ridiculous,” he lets out a laugh, though it comes out pained.   
  
Lecter reaches up and fixes the tilted headband on Will’s head, gently letting his hand slide to the back of his neck before taking Graham’s hand on the table again. “I love you too, Will.”   
  
_For the first time in a long while_ , Will thinks to himself,  _ I have found a peace here that I would like to preserve. _ __   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovelies! I hope you're having a wonderful day.
> 
> I rarely attempt to write anything short but I just got sent my Hannibal Bingo card and thought this would work quite well! I hope you enjoy it and don't take it too seriously <]:v)
> 
> \- Newt xx


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